Roman,
I need you to know that I hate you. I hate that you could have imagined that you kept the gate to my mind. You might call yourself storyteller, but everyone knows you use literature's headstone to prop open your door. You might call yourself teacher, but you just morph beautiful into pain. You never call yourself traitor, but that is what you are, and you know it. How could your rhetoric ever redeem you?
The world trusts your hands with the future and you don't even understand. You don't understand your sacred undertaking. You spit on us with your rules and your lists and your copied empty allegories. You won't be finished until all of the open eyes in world bleed with the pain of your mind strangle toil. We are not your playground. We will not be your tea-fetching slaves.
I think you must believe yourself the savior. You have no other path to personal peace. I think you want to be the lion. You don't realize the true saviors are sitting hunched in subjugation at your feet. They stare up at you from the floor with accidental respect and offer you the most delicious fruit that can be tasted... and you dare to look down to meet them. You hold out your egg and put your smile on your throat to mock god.
Permanent antagonist.
Don't think I'm angry. Remember that if you were merely a king, your name would be Jones. No matter what you read and tell you will always be an outsider to thought. The real world will always be closed to you and open to your victims. If I could save them from you, you would find yourself inside the cage with the rest looking in.
The young will see the light of perfect possibility no matter what you do.
Everything written is worth reading. Every thought is your equal. Every student can be your teacher. Every child will change the world. Every pair of eyes will witness their love. Every villain is powerless to stop our infinite recreation.
When the morning creeps in you'll sleep. Like Vlad before you, I promise. The most perverted fate of lupine hours will scream away the hurt and redeem every mind you've touched in abuse.
Did you really think my metamorphic fantasies could tether me more than you did?
Regards,
Jonas Briedis
